


When Werewolves Use Poison

by Youremyalways



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Healer, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Poison, curse, guilty!dean, protective!Dean, sick!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youremyalways/pseuds/Youremyalways
Summary: Sam and Dean split up after a successful hunt only for Sam to be awoken in the middle of the night by a sickness so bad he fears for his life.How does Dean react once he finds out, and will he be able to save Sam from this supernatural virus before it’s too late?
Relationships: Sam Winchester & Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 87





	1. Sam

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy this story, guys!
> 
> P.S. I have all the chapters done, I’m just editting through them so they’ll be up soon :D

*Sam POV*

It was becoming the longest night of Sam’s entire life.

Every minute that passed felt like ten, and every ten minutes that passed felt like an hour. 

Every time he moved, his head was set aflame and his stomach churned so harshly he was forced to clutch the toilet like a lifeline as he heaved over and over again. His stomach was in absolute knots. It felt like someone had their fist wrapped around his intestine and was squeezing as hard as they could, wringing him for all he was worth. His head pounded and his entire body felt weak. His knuckles were white as snow where they gripped the toilet bowl and his body was shivering rapidly as sweat ran down his forehead. He reached for his phone to call Dean about a hundred times, but stopped himself every time. He wasn’t gonna have his brother come running over a freaking stomach bug. He was fine. It just sucked. He hadn’t slept in forty eight hours at least, and he certainly wasn’t going to sleep tonight. The exhaustion only made everything worse because he was already half delirious. Any chance of being even semi lucid was out the window- Not when he was dehydrated, exhausted, had expelled every calorie in his body, and was hindered by the migraine of the decade. 

God, what he would give to have Dean next to him right now. But that wasn’t an option.

They parted ways around eight o’clock, when his brother left the bar they were drinking at with his arm wrapped around a pretty redhead in a short skirt, telling Sam ‘don’t wait up’. Sam was fine with it. Honestly. They were due for a little victory celebration, anyway. They saved a family of four and downed a werewolf in two days. It was a good feeling to get a mark in the ‘win’ column. So yeah, Sam was cool with Dean relishing in that. Especially since he was tired as hell and had taken a few nasty blows during their tussle with the werewolf earlier in the day. He could use some alone time for a little R&R. 

So, he finished his beer, tipped the bartender well, and drove home. Dean at least left him the impala, which he was thankful for. His older brother was probably laid up in bed at a cheap motel within walking distance, and he was in no condition to drive anyway. There was barely any traffic, so the ride back to the motel room was shorter than usual. He parked perfectly between the white lines, locked up the car, and stumbled into their room. Within minutes, he was chucking off his jacket, brushing his teeth, and passing out on the queen mattress farthest from the door. Goodnight, world.

He just never expected to be woken up not even a half hour later by a bout of nausea that was so severe it had him running to the bathroom. 

He wasn’t hungover. He only had two beers and that was only two hours ago. And he didn’t get sick, everyone said so, there were even jokes about it- how the Winchesters seemed to magically avoid the stomach bug, common cold, or allergies. His immune system was strong as hell. 

It hadn’t been building up, either. He felt fine all day. They finished up the werewolf they were hunting with a silver bullet to the heart and then ate dinner before hitting the bar. It was a cookie-cutter hunt. Completely standard. He’d been a bit tired and gone to bed early, but otherwise, it was unexpected. Regardless, at this point Sam was way too distracted by his stomach trying to expel all of its contents to put much more thought into it.

It was now just after three a.m. and Sam was retching into the toilet for God only knows what time that night. He’d stopped counting hours ago. His heart was pounding so fast and loud he could hear it thumping. He couldn’t even see the toilet bowl. The light only enhanced the pain, so he turned the lights off hours ago. It wasn’t an issue when the sun was going down, but now, a far cry from daylight, the dark was all encompassing. He was borderline delirious, stomach constantly aching. He was using the edge of the tub to lean his back against, the cold tiles feeling nice against his hot skin. He felt like crying, he was so tired. All he wanted to do was go to sleep, but his body was fighting against it on every cylinder. He wanted to be in bed  _ hours ago,  _ but instead he’s whiteknuckling the toilet bowl and trying to ignore the gun show in his brain. Fuck’s sake. 

He gagged once again and dragged himself to the toilet, tears in his eyes. He’d gotten rid of all the food (and beer for that matter), in his stomach ages ago, so now all he threw up was bile if anything at all. The dry heaving left his throat burning hot like hell fire, and he would know. At least when something came up he felt a little better for a few minutes.

Sam wiped his mouth with some toilet paper before leaning back against the tub clutching his stomach, which was still churching unnaturally. He was so goddamn sick of being sick. It’s funny how quickly having a stomach bug sent Sam back to when he was a kid. He felt completely helpless, and all he wanted was Dean. He thought back to when he was six; His older brother would bring him microwave hot chocolate and rub his back while he puked. He’d hum metallica under his breath and let Sam lean against his arm as he heaved. He wished he was around right now. However, Dean was in a motel room who-knows-where banging some bar chick, and if he wasn’t, then he was asleep, and Sam wasn’t going to freak him out or wake him up over a freaking stomach bug. He could handle it. Sure, that resolution almost dissolved every time he leaned over the toilet, but he held onto it anyway, because it was the only thing he had control over at the moment.

Sam fumbled across the tiles for his phone, wanting to check the time for the umteenth time that night. It made everything worse, so he didn’t know why he kept doing it. It was always earlier than he wanted to be, and all it did was confirm that it would be a long ass time til any help came. He barely cracked his eyes open to check what the screen said, but he squinted them shut immediately when the light sent a spine-chilling ray of pain through his skull. It seared his eyes, though not enough to obscure the time 3:11a.m. at the top of his screen.

He actually groaned out loud, dropping his forehead to the edge of the toilet and letting out an agonizingly deep breath. The last time he checked it was 3:02a.m. Which meant it had only been 9 minutes.

  1. Fucking. Minutes.



_ What the hell? _

Why couldn’t he just fucking sleep?! God, he’d never wanted to pass out so bad in his whole life. He was on the verge of holding his breath until he knocked himself out, but he knew that it would only lead to his stomach churning up more acid. 

3:11a.m.

Dean normally stumbled in after a hookup around 11:00am with bags of breakfast in his hands to compensate- Which for Sam was always lunch, since he woke up at 8:00 every day to get a jog in and shower before Dean could steal all the hot water for himself. 

So… there were eight hours at least until Dean came home. And that was if he was on schedule. There have been times where Dean didn’t return until the next night, if the girl was really good (or really desperate). Sam looked up to the ceiling and the sky beyond and prayed with everything in him that tonight was not one of those nights. 

It was a cruel, ironic loop. The stench of the stomach-acid vomit made him puke again in a vicious cycle that left his body weak and convulsing. He kept swallowing and his throat kept clenching, but no matter what, he couldn’t stop the warm feeling rising through his chest. Then he could taste it at the back of his mouth. Dry heave, dry heave, dry heave.

He felt like he would never get better.

By the minute he was getting warmer and warmer, too. Even under just a light cotton tee shirt he was radiating heat like a brick oven. His coughing was too loud to his own fucking ears and every time one erupted from his throat he cried out, only adding to the agony. It was a barking cough that carried well though walls and made his stomach ache even worse. He was so damn bored of being ill, all he wanted was to sleep and go get Dean and hunt another fucking nightmare. But, he knew logically that there was nothing to do but ride it out. 

His breath quivered in short, quick gasps every time he inhaled, his lungs having no choice but to painfully and rigidly take in the air around him. He couldn't seem to stop shaking either. Sometimes it was rough, other times he could manage, but every time he'd get close to sleep, his breath evening out and eyes getting heavy (even if his pillow was the edge of the tub, he’d take what he could get), a new spell of violent shaking would force him awake. "I'll get better. I'll get better," he internally repeated to himself, feebly rubbing away at his arms in a sickly attempt to cease the unsettling chill that continued to run down his spine and made his skin crawl.

It was just after 4:15a.m. when he finally drifted off, head resting on the toilet seat.

He woke up again at 4:45a.m. to another bout of nausea and a wave of heat falling over his body that was so intense he reached for the hem of his tee shirt and chucked it over his head, leaving him shirtless. He drifted off again after dry heaving for another two minutes.

He woke up again at 5:22a.m. so hot that he ripped his socks off too and wrapped as much of his body around the toilet bowl as he could because the cold surface felt so good on his skin.

5:43 puking.

5:55 sweating.

6:17 coughing. 

6:33 a drilling in his head that was so painful it made him sob. And Sam Winchester  _ didn’t  _ sob.

The next time Sam woke up, he was slightly more lucid than before. There was a cold surface under his forehead and a cramp in his back. His head was pounding as he jerked awake with a gasp and immediately searched the room for his brother, but Dean was nowhere to be found. He tried to stand up, but his legs collapsed underneath him and sent him tumbling back down to the floor. Floor… tiles… bathroom. Everything came flooding back. The throwing up, the sweats, the migraine… 

God, he felt terrible. He could barely breathe. Sam went to turn over, but found his limbs too weighed down to maneuver. He grunted, flipping himself over just in time to puke up pure stomach acid, half in the toilet and half… not. 

He tried to stand, seeking water. He didn’t even make it to a kneeling position before he ended up collapsing to the floor face first. The lights were still off in the room and Sam squinted as his eyes adjusted to the daylight filtering in through the bottom of the bathroom door, which was now at eye level. 

“Dea-," his voice cracked, and he seethed as his chapped lips split painfully, “Dean…” 

His phone was on the ground by the sink, and Sam winced and shook painfully as he reached for it with one heavy arm. He just needed to see what time it was. As he dragged in ragged breaths, he wrapped his fingers around the black case and pulled it towards his face. He couldn’t even muster up the strength to pick it up, he just slid it across the floor and left it on the tile right by his face as he clicked it on.

_ 7:06 a.m. _

Sam whined and swallowed down a sob. Dean still wouldn’t be back for a while. Not if he’d stayed the night with a girl. It would be hours… 

He made the decision then and there. He couldn’t fucking do it anymore. He was throwing in the towel. Every pain receptor in his body was on fire and he could not fall asleep for his life. If anything, maybe Dean could get him some medicine. So… he unlocked his phone with a shaky thumb print and hit speed dial, his head and stomach both lurching at the effort. Once the ringing started, Sam let his hand drop to the floor, palm open and facing up.

_ Please,  _ he begged internally,  _ please pick up _ .

But instead it was ring after ring after ring. 

Every chirp made Sam feel worse. His gut clenched tighter, his head pounded harder, and his body got hotter. 

_ Please _ , he begged one more time, only to be greeted by the voicemail message.

He groaned under his breath.  _ Come on, Dean. _

As soon as it beeped, cueing Sam to leave the message, he took a deep breath and tried to speak. His throat was in ribbons, so he gave himself a minute to clear his voice. But apparently that took too long, because just as he opened his mouth to speak, the message cut out with a beep.

Sam cried out, frustrated as hell. Of course when he was finally ready to call for help, he couldn’t reach his brother.  _ Fuck. _

He passed out again before he could try redialing. 

7:34 he woke up to puke again.

7:57 head pounding

8:12 room spinning. 

And then at 8:44, phone ringing. 

Phone ringing!

Sam didn’t even check to see who was calling before flailing his fingers around until he hit the answer button. It must be Dean. It had to be.

“Dean,” he said, voice breathy and raw. 

“Well, you sound awesome,” Dean’s sarcastic words filtered through Sam’s brain, and he hissed at the noise, jerking the phone away from his ear.

“Sam?” Dean quieted his voice, “You okay?”

“Not great.” Sam breathed out in a harsh groan, scrunching his face up in pain. He clutched his throat and scraped his nails down his neck as every word ripped at his vocal chords. Every ounce of his previous tendency to lie about his own pain flew out the window long ago. He didn’t have the energy.

“Are you hung over?” Dean sounded shocked, “Dude, you sound like shit. How much did you drink after I left?”

Sam cleared his throat, “No…” He opened his mouth to continue speaking but instead found himself over the toilet yet again, except this time he had Dean on speaker, listening to every heave.

When Sam was done he scrambled for the phone and started talking into it without pausing to see if Dean was saying anything. “It’s… a bug… I think.”

Dean was saying something to Sam, but he couldn’t fucking hear. His brother had an edge to his voice that triggered an awful wave of pain in Sam, so he dropped the phone on the floor next to him and turned, resting his head on the edge of the toilet and laying his palms flat on the seat, hoping that the cold would help, like it did before. The pain was overwhelming.

“Hey Sam, Sam! You okay?! I’m on my way.” Dean sounded frantic now, and Sam swore he could hear the rustling of clothes in the background of the phone call. Every sound only enhanced the pain in his head, and it took every ounce of energy to get something out.

“Please.” Sam pleaded, barely audible.

“Talk to me, Sam! What’s happening?” Dean yelled, and Sam turned his head away from the phone. He could hear a whispered conversation on the other end of the phone and then there was the sound of a door closing. God, everything was so freaking loud. 

“Urgh, quiet.” He whined, the breaths in between words still hitched and broken.

“What?” Dean sounded both shocked and worried, “Why?!”

“It hurts,” Sam whimpered, wishing he would just pass out or die already, anything to escape the drill currently carving into his skull, “Please, quiet.” 

His brother didn’t say anything in response, so Sam figured either Dean had listened, or Sam just couldn’t hear anymore. Regardless, he dropped the phone to the floor by the sink and lowered his head back down to the toilet seat. 

Time blurred, and the next time Dean spoke over the telephone, Sam couldn’t make out what he was saying. It all sounded like muffled rambling. All he could focus on was the pattern of tie-dye ellipses painting the back of his eyelids and then he was passing out.

———xxxx———

The next time consciousness claimed him, Sam woke up to the sound of pounding footsteps coming from outside the bathroom. Dean. It must be Dean. Sam sighed in relief. Dean would make this better.

He heard a knock at the door the next moment and every singular pound sent a rifling through his head. He grunted as he heard Dean’s hesitant voice calling from right outside the door, “Sam?” 

He figured not replying would send enough of a message.

And it did. Within seconds, the door was swinging open and Dean was standing behind him. God, he couldn’t even imagine what he looked like. There was bile all over the floor by the toilet and his shirt and socks were disregarded by the sink. He was shirtless and there was sweat dripping down the line between his pecs and down over his abs. His hair was damp with sweat and his face was surely flushed bright red. His arms were stretched over the toilet bowl and his head was resting against it, legs spread out on either side of him in messy zigzags. Nevermind the smell. God, Sam was immune to it at this point, but he was sure Dean would notice.

“Sam!” Dean fell on his knees beside him, and then there were hands roaming over his naked shoulders, reaching for his chin and guiding his head up to look at him. Sam stared up at Dean’s face, and his brother looked just about as ready to pass out as Sam was. 

“Shit.” Dean whispered in a hushed breath as his eyes pored over the scene in front of him. There seemed to be a little bit of relief in his expression though. Sam couldn’t blame him. They were hunters; seeing Sam horrifically ill was still better than seeing him bleeding to death. He leaned into Dean’s hand as his brother asked softly, “Hey, man. Hey, what’s going on?”

Sam just shook his head.

“Some stomach bug.” Dean acknowledged, rubbing his hand up and down Sam’s back in sympathy, “Sorry, dude.”

Sam just groaned, but then he was twisting out of Dean’s grasp to dry heave over the toilet again. He felt Dean tense beside him.

“Okay, okay, you’re fine.” He whispered soothingly, but when Sam brought his gaze back to Dean’s, he noticed that his brother looked freaked to hell. 

“You’re alright. Just breathe, okay?” Dean was staring at him with wide, anxious eyes. His brother looked frazzled, and Sam wanted to say something- anything- to reassure him, but he was in too much freaking pain. 

His voice was strained as he whispered, “I don’t feel good, D’n.”

“Yeah, I got that much.” Dean teased lightly, his lips drawn tight in a worried smile, “Don’t worry, I’m here now.”

Sam leaned into Dean’s hand, which was back under his chin, and whined low, “Don’t think it’s…” His breath staggered, “just a bug.”

Dean tensed one again, “What?” He glanced at Sam with a horrified expression. For once in his life, Dean looked genuinely helpless. Sam hunched over, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

“Dean…” Sam gulped, all of the remaining color draining from his face as another wave of nausea climbed up his gut, “I’m… gonna…” 

Dean’s eyes widened as Sam shook his head out of his hand and leaned over the bowl, spitting strings of saliva into the water. He gave an involuntary whimper. “I…” 

“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay.” Dean gently rubbed his back. His older brother sounded like he was in hell. His voice was full of worry and anguish, “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got you. Do what you gotta do. You’ll feel better once it’s out.”

Sam knew his brother was wrong. He’s been throwing up for the past twelve hours at least and it never seemed to make him feel better. But still… he didn’t need to be told twice. He coughed drily, then gagged. The first retch brought a thin line of bile, but the following three heaves were nothing but air. He coughed and choked, barely able to draw in a breath before his whole body shuddered and he dry heaved yet again.

“Jesus, Sam.” Dean whispered, clearly concerned. He watched as nothing but air and bile came up and he scrunched his eyebrows together, “How long you been puking? You got nothing left.”

“All…” Sam dry heaved again and squinted his eyes closed as it made his whole body hurt.

“Easy, Sammy” Dean soothed, awkwardly patting his back. He could probably feel the muscles under his palm contracting.

“All night.” He answered Dean’s previous question when he finally caught a break between gags.

“Breathe, Sammy, breathe,” Dean comforted, and Sam could hear his voice getting tighter and tighter. He felt awful for worrying his brother this much. 

When he felt like he was done gagging, Sam folded his arms on the edge of the seat and let his head fall onto them, trembling. 

“Hang on.” Dean whispered and then his body was suddenly gone and Sam actually whined out loud at the loss.

“Dean.” He called, breathlessly. The one word sounded almost like a prayer, but he couldn’t help it. Not having Dean by his side made the pain a million times worse. 

Within a few seconds, he was back, slipping down next to Sam again and reassuring him, “I’m right here. Not leaving.” 

And then Sam felt a calloused hand under his chin, lifting his head up. He couldn’t even open his eyes all the way, just let them be slits under his heavy eyelids. Dean gently guided a wet washcloth across Sam’s mouth, cleaning him up. Sam leaned into the touch, relishing in the cold. 

“There we go.” Dean mumbled as he folded the washcloth and swiped it over Sam’s forehead, “That’s better, huh?” 

Then there was a glass of water being held up to Sam’s face in offering, but Sam immediately shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. All he was gonna do was throw it up. He was thankful that Dean didn’t try to press him, just put the glass down on the edge of the sink and continued dabbing his face with the washcloth.

“Okay, what is happening? It can’t be food poisoning, we ate the same thing…” Dean questioned, and the worry gnawing at his gut was evident in his voice.

Sam shook his head, wincing, “I don’t know. Flu?” He guessed, seething, “It’s a bitch, though.” 

Before Dean could respond, Sam interrupted by hissing loudly at the pounding in his head.

“Urgh,” Sam complained before gagging again. “I  _ hate  _ this.”

“I know, I know,” Dean sympathized, bringing the washcloth down and swiping it over Sam’s neck and upper chest, “But, I’m here now. We’ll figure it out.”

Sam looked down at the toilet and saw the foam floating on the surface of the water from his bile. He made a disgusted face and reached for the handle on the toilet to flush, but missed. His hand slipped and he tilted dangerously to the side. 

“Hey, big guy, careful,” Dean said, alarmed, as he kept Sam steady, “You dizzy?”

“A little,” Sam admitted, “Head’s all muffled.”

“You know, you’re gonna have to try water at some point. You’re definitely dehydrated.” Dean let go of Sam’s shoulders, and Sam was so tired he just sank into Dean’s chest.

“No,” he mumbled, eyelids fluttering shut, “It’ll just come back up.”

After a few minutes, he felt Dean swiping the wash cloth over his forehead again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was absolutely dripping with guilt, “I should have been here.”

“Not your fau-” Sam started to speak, but then he felt his mouth filling with saliva and he shot up, retching up more oxygen and CO2. 

“Fuck!” Sam croaked loudly after he stopped heaving, slamming his fist down on the toilet seat and wincing as his fist exploded in pain. He was just so fucking frustrated.

“I know this sucks, Sam. Being sick  _ sucks. _ ” Dean winced in sympathy and then Sam felt a towel gently draped over his shoulders.

“Think you can make it to the bed?” Dean asked gently, “It’ll be more comfortable than the bathroom floor.”

“I don’t think so.” Sam whispered honestly, “Been here all night.”

“Okay, Sam.” Dean whispered, “I’m gonna call Bobby, alright? I don’t think this is just the flu, you look like hot crap.” Then he felt Dean fidgeting next to him, laying a freezing cold hand on his forehead, and then there was a new voice. He realized Dean had Bobby on speaker phone.

“Dean.”

“Bobby, Sam’s real sick. I think something might be really wrong, he’s been puking all night, and he’s burning hot. I don’t know what’s happening, but-”

“Dean! Slow down! We’ll figure it out. Why don’t you run-down the symptoms for me. Dean-” Sam could hear Bobby’s voice, but things were making less and less sense. He’d been lucid for so long, but the lack of sleep and bodily fluids was catching up to him quickly. His eyelids were getting heavier and heavier and the cotton in his head was getting thicker and thicker. Oh no… 

Dean was saying something above him, but he couldn’t make it out. Then there were prodding fingers pulling on his eyelids and something way too bright was being shone in his eyes. He squirmed and grunted again.

He kept fading in and out of awareness, piercing the veil between conscious and unconscious thought. He felt it when a hand slipped into his.

“Yeah, he’s out of it.” He heard Dean say inches away from his face. Sam would have laughed if he was able.

“Sam, can you squeeze my hand?” Dean’s voice seemed so distant, so muffled, “Sam, come on, are you hearing me?”

Sam did hear him, however vaguely, so he tried his best to squeeze.

“Atta boy.” Dean smiled proudly, gently yet firmly slapping a hand down on Sam’s back right between the shoulder blades. 

Dean and Bobby went back and forth for a bit in hushed tones. Sam zoned out for a while before he was shocked back by the sound of Dean’s voice.

“Okay, okay.” Dean’s voice was tight, “Bobby, I’m really worried. It looks pretty bad. I’ve only been here for an hour, maybe, and he’s already gotten way worse. I don’t think it’s just a virus.”

Sam dropped his hand to Dean’s knee and gave it a gentle squeeze to reassure him. Dean simply laid his unoccupied hand quickly over Sam’s in acknowledgment.

Sam felt his anxiety triple when he heard Dean tell Bobby, “I’m seriously on the verge of hauling his ass to a hospital.” 

Sam moaned, not wanting any second of a hospital room. 

Clearly Bobby had his back because he heard the older man tell Dean, “No, no, no. Not ‘til we know we’re dealing with. Just keep an ey-”

Sam then faded into unconsciousness again. Brain fogging over. 

An uncountable number of minutes (could have been hours, Sam couldn’t tell), passed before he was suddenly waking up again. This time, it was to the feeling of hands pulling him up from the ground and dragging him out of the bathroom.

He blinked his eyes open and swept his eyes around, trying to figure out what was happening.

“There he is.” Dean responded, clapping a hand down on his cheek, “We’re gonna get you to the bed, little brother.” 

The bed would be nice, sure, but standing up didn’t sound like something he even wanted to attempt at the moment. But on the other hand… his bed was literally  _ right there _ on the opposite side of the bathroom door. Sam’s hand dropped off of Dean’s knee and he nodded.

“Come on,” Dean helped Sam up, catching him immediately as his feet swayed. It was overwhelming, but… Sam took a step. The movement sent a jolt of pain to his head and then the room was spinning. Waves of dizziness collapsed over him. 

The only reason he even made it to the bathroom doorway was because he was clutching onto Dean with everything he had. He was trying to focus his eyes on something- anything- but the entire room was blurry and the harder he tried to concentrate, the more it hurt. Only one step into the main room, Sam’s legs gave out and he collapsed.

“Shit!” Dean caught him before he fell.

“Sorry,” Sam slurred.

“Don’t apologize, I got you.” Dean said, readjusting his hold on Sam by manhandling his arm so it was over his shoulders. Dean started walking, but Sam barely made it another two steps before stumbling and almost sliding out of Dean’s hold yet again.

“Steady, Sam, steady.” Dean caught him with a strained hiss. Sam was not a small guy by any means, especially when he wasn’t carrying any of his own weight. He felt awful for putting that burden on his brother. 

Sam explained lazily, “It’s my head. Uh…” He swallowed thickly, “Like vertigo.”

“Okay. Close your eyes if it helps.” Dean took a deep breath and cursed under his breath before saying a little louder, “Just a few more steps.”

Sam almost pulled Dean down with him several more times, but they finally made it to the bed. Dean helped Sam slide onto the mattress and gently pulled the covers up over his body once he was down flat. He left the room momentarily, but returned after a minute with the same glass of water from before, placing it on the nightstand by the bed. Sam groaned in disapproval.

Then Dean was rolling Sam’s desk chair to the head of Sam’s bed and sitting down. He almost forgot it was daytime, and that Dean wasn’t in need of sleep right now. He was totally available to sit by Sam’s bedside and care for him. He reached out to grab Sam’s hand as he asked, “You want a drink?” 

Sam’s mouth was dry and his throat was raw, but taking a drink meant he had to sit up and that meant making the pounding in his head worse and possibly putting more fuel in his stomach to barf up.

“I- don’t know.” Sam whispered, waves of exhaustion rolling through him now that he was properly lying down.

“Sam, I really don’t want to force you, but… you’re way beyond dehydrated.” Dean said, and then slipped an arm underneath Sam’s bare shoulders to help him raise his upper body.

“Okay, just slow. Slow.” Dean cooed as he held the glass to Sam’s lips, the taller Winchester taking small sips, “That’s it. Easy.” Dean praised.

It took him much longer than it should have to drink barely half of the glass, but he gave himself a high five for keeping it down. When he was done, Dean helped Sam lower himself back down. 

“Try to sleep, Sam.” Dean instructed, leaning back in his chair with a sigh, “I’ll be here the whole time.”

And Dean did stay nearby, keeping himself busy with the hem of his shirt, still holding Sam’s hand. Of course, the next time Sam awoke it was to throw up, again.

At least this time, Dean was there to help. He grabbed a trash can and shoved it underneath Sam’s mouth to collect the vomit, or rather water, that came up. Sam felt immensely better just knowing Dean was around, but based on his brother’s messy hair and the dark bags under his eyes, he hadn’t gotten much sleep either. And the stress certainly wasn’t helping anything. He was so grateful that Dean was looking out for him. Sam was out again before he could even thank him for that.

———xxxx———

The next time Sam woke up, it was to the sound of hushed whispering coming from somewhere vaguely distant. The first thing he felt was the weight on his stomach, and he looked up without moving his upper body to see what was on it- but there was nothing. And on top of that, moving his head sent a shard of glass through his skull and he hissed in agony, pushing hot air out of his lungs. 

“Sammy?” He heard a voice come from the same distant point that the earlier whispering came from.

With a mammoth effort he peeled his eyes open again, looking to the side with a flinch to see Dean, whose eyes were trained on Sam’s as he jogged towards him, one arm raised to his ear with his phone in hand. Sam could see the worry in his body language- how his shoulders hung low and his eyebrows furrowed tight.

“Hey kiddo,” Dean greeted softly before redirecting his attention to the phone, “Yeah, Bobby, he’s awake. Hang on.” He said and then he put the phone down on the nightstand as he kneeled next to Sam’s bed.

“Hey, Bobby’s almost here. You feeling any better?” Dean asked, but even Sam could tell he didn’t believe that for a second.

And Sam certainly did not feel any better. His stomach was in knots, his head was in shards, and his whole body felt five hundred degrees. If anything, he felt worse. So, he shook his head.

Dean sighed, “Yeah, I figured. Do you want more water?” He asked as he moved his hand up to lay across Sam’s forehead, “God, you’re burning up.” He regarded worriedly before reaching for his phone again.

“He’s definitely got a fever.” Sam tried to remain calm and still as Dean’s eyes swept over him, “Pupils are dilated too.”

Dean pushed his shoulder up so the phone was wedged between his ear and his neck to free his hand to reach for a glass of water. He held it out for Sam, who eyed it cautiously before sitting up just the tiniest bit.

“I know it’s a possibility,” Dean replied to something Bobby said as he gently helped Sam drink down the water, “I was trying not to consider it.”

Dean manhandled Sam’s head to get the whole glass of water down. Sam was tired enough that he didn’t really care what was done to him, which was at least helpful to Dean. 

“A curse?” Dean asked over the phone as he pulled the empty glass away from Sam’s mouth and swiped a washcloth over his forehead. All of Sam’s body shot into red alert.  _ Curse?! _ “I don’t think so. We were hunting a werewolf, Bobby, they don’t do curses.”

Sam groaned. Viruses were much easier to deal with than curses. They had strict patterns, strict rules, strict cures. Curses were unpredictable. They could cause anything from a rash to a fatal heart attack. A curse could be engineered or personalized by whatever or whoever was using it. There were no rules, no patterns, and often? No cure. 

Dean continued talking into the phone, eyes never leaving Sam, “No, I already thought of that, but we ate all the same stuff. I would have it too.”

Sam squinted his eyes shut against the light of the room, the brightness starting to affect his head in a very not-fun kinda way.

“The bar was the last place he was before he got sick.” Dean continued talking to Bobby, “But he could’ve gotten it before then and not shown symptoms for a while.”

“Bobby,” Dean whispered, his voice deadly serious, “I’ve never seen him this sick.”

Bobby must have said something reassuring because Dean closed his eyes and bit his lip gently, which he only did when he was trying to hold back emotions.

Sam tried to say something too, but it came out a fractured breath.

“Wait, wait, hang on.” Dean told Bobby as he pulled the phone away again. He leaned towards Sam and placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, “What is it, Sam?”

“I’m…” He choked, breaking into a coughing fit that prompted Dean to squint his eyes shut and bite his lip again, “‘m okay.”

Dean nodded, “You know what?” He asked rhetorically, eyes blurry with tears. He was clearly trying to divert his attention from his very sick brother, “I’m gonna make you some soup. How's that sound?”

Sam thought it sounded like a bad idea this soon, honestly. But he bit his tongue. He could tell it was much more for Dean’s benefit than his own. Dean needed to feel useful. So Sam just swallowed down his denial and slipped his eyes closed again, giving Dean permission to walk away. 

He passed out for the thousandth time that -morning, afternoon, day, night, whatever- to the sound of Dean’s voice from a far off corner in the motel room. 

He honestly felt like he might not wake up again. 


	2. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy chapter 2!! 
> 
> As Sam fades in and out of consciousness, the narrative shifts so we see the situation from Dean’s perspective.

*Dean POV* 

“Bobby, he looks like crap. I’m starting to think this is something serious.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“Uhm… fever. Nausea. Coughing. He said his head hurt, and he’s shaking like a fucking leaf. He was dizzy before, ‘said he had vertigo. And he’s pale as all hell.”

“Well, Dean. I understand it’s nerve wracking, but maybe it really is just a nasty bug. Even someone you’re brother’s size isn’t immune to the flu.”

Dean shook his head at Bobby’s answer. No way in hell. Sam’s had stomach aches before, but this was a whole other level. When he found his brother he thought he might be dying. He was shirtless, sweaty, pale, and clutching the toilet so tight he could crack the porcelain. Dean’s nerves hadn’t calmed down since then, his heart still thundering in his chest. He was pacing the kitchenette now, just trying to get rid of some of his nervous energy. Watching Sam retch over and over again was one of the worst things he’s ever had to do. At least when Sam was injured, Dean could sew him up, but now? He felt useless.

“I don’t know, Bobby. I really don’t think it’s just a virus.” Dean answered Bobby, eyes running over Sam where he was asleep in the bed. He was still flushed and sweaty, his eyelids fluttering every few seconds. His lips were drawn in a tight frown even as he slept.

“Well, I’m about thirty minutes out. But, until then, we look at the possibilities.”

“Wait, hang on.” Dean instructed Bobby when he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He focused on Sam and felt his heart skip a beat when he saw Sam’s eyes flick open, and then close just as quickly.

“Sammy?” He asked, hopefully. He saw his brother squirm a bit more and then on pure instinct alone, he jogged forward. Sam’s eyes meet his again halfway there, and Dean could scream in relief.

“Hey kiddo,” He said softly.

“He’s awake, I take it?” Bobby’s voice came from the phone.

“Yeah, Bobby, he’s awake.” Dean confirmed before telling the older hunter to, “Hang on.”

He then put the phone down on the nightstand as he kneeled next to Sam’s bed. He swallowed as he took in the sight of Sam’s doey, glazed over eyes.

“Hey, Bobby’s almost here.” He watched as Sam tried to make sense of what he was saying. He felt the doubt festering in his chest, but asked nonetheless, “You feeling any better?” 

Sam shook his head, which Dean figured he would. Still, it felt like a punch in the gut. Can’t blame a guy for holding onto a little bit of hope. But, then again, maybe you could. Winchesters aren’t just normal guys. They know better. Too much hope is just as dangerous as no hope at all.

Dean sighed, “Yeah, I figured.” Then he looked to the table and saw the glass of water he’d refilled a while ago was still sitting on the nightstand, so he asked, “Do you want more water?” 

Sam didn’t give him an affirmative response, but the question was just to be polite. Sam needed water. He was getting it.

He then felt another wave of worry crash over him as he studied Sam’s red cheeks up close. He brought a hand to Sam’s forehead to test the temperature, and hissed at the heat he found there, “God, you’re burning up.” He regarded worriedly before reaching for his phone again.

Never in his life had he wished for a thermometer before. The Winchesters saved the entire fucking world, they could handle a fever. They didn’t coddle, or take a sick day, or hell, even tell one another when they were sick. But, this was something else entirely. Whatever was up with Sam… it was bad. He never would’ve called Dean otherwise. That thought alone made goosebumps pop up on every inch of unclothed skin Dean had.

“He’s definitely got a fever.” Dean relayed the message to Bobby, and then as Sam blinked, he noticed that his pupils were blown up substantially as well, “Pupils are dilated too.”

What the hell was going on? He had the symptoms of like eight different viruses at once. If Dean wasn’t panicking already, he surely was now. All he wanted was to haul ass to a hospital and get his brother treated, but… he knew Bobby was right. If this was something supernatural and not just a sickness, they didn’t need all of the questions. They couldn’t risk wasting the time if Sam was in danger. It would only make everything worse. So… he’d wait until they were sure.

“Have you considered that poison might be a possibility?” Bobby asked carefully on the other end of the phone, clearly not wanting to say, or even think about, his own words.

Dean bit his lip. Of course he’d considered it. He was trying very hard  _ not  _ to, but yeah, of course… when you see dilated pupils, nausea, plus all the other symptoms and consider what they do for a living… it’s a difficult possibility to ignore. Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat and pushed his shoulder up so the phone was wedged between his ear and his neck to free his hand to reach for the glass of water. He held it out for Sam, who eyed it cautiously before sitting up just the tiniest bit.

“I know it’s a possibility,” Dean replied to Bobby -quietly, dreadfully- as the fear and anxiety twisted in his gut. He held the cup up while Sam took small sips, “I was trying not to consider it.”

When the angle of Sam’s head and the cup changed, it made it difficult for him to continue getting water into his mouth, so Dean grabbed Sam’s chin with his right hand and tilted it up to get the rest of the water down until the cup was empty. 

“Yeah, me neither.” Bobby sighed and then cursed under his breath, probably at another driver, before suggesting, “Or It could be a curse. They’re rare, but I’ve heard of a few with this kind of mojo.”

“A curse?” Dean asked as he pulled the empty glass away from Sam’s mouth. He then reached for the washcloth he left beside it and swiped it over Sam’s forehead. “I don’t think so. We were hunting a werewolf, Bobby, they don’t do curses.”

Sam groaned beside him and Dean winced in sympathy, but listened as Bobby continued.

“Extreme case of food positioning, then?”

Dean shook his head, he’d thought about it. He even wrote down a list of all the places where they ate and what Sam had while Sam was out cold, but nothing made sense. They both had everything bagels in the morning, skipped lunch in favor of strong black coffee, and then got burgers at a restaurant a few blocks from their motel before heading to the bar and drinking the same beers. Well, Dean had more than the beer, but that’s besides the point. 

“No, I already thought of that, but we ate all the same stuff. I would have it too.” He told Bobby, face tightening in concern as he watched Sam making little fidgety movements with his face and hands, clearly in pain.

When Sam squinted his eyes shut, Dean pulled the washcloth away from his face.

“Where were you guys last before it all went down?” Bobby asked.

“The bar was the last place he was before he got sick.” Dean answered, “But he could’ve gotten it before then and not shown symptoms for a while.”

Dean looked over Sam’s face again and felt his gut twist. Why did he keep looking? God, he couldn’t stop himself, but all it did was make everything worse.

“Bobby,” Dean whispered, “I’ve never seen him this sick.”

“I know. One step at a time, alright? We just gotta keep an eye on him for now. I’ll be there soon to help. He’ll be okay, Dean, he always is. You know that.”

Dean was about to respond when suddenly Sam’s mouth was dropping open and a hitched breath was falling from his lips. 

“All I’m saying is-”

“Wait, wait, hang on.” Dean told Bobby as he pulled the phone away again. He leaned towards Sam and placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, “What is it, Sam?”

“I’m…” He let out a choked breath and then broke into a coughing fit that made Dean’s eyes fill with tears. He  _ hated _ seeing Sam like this. He was miserable, and sick, and in pain, and Dean could do  _ nothing  _ but sit there and twiddle his thumbs. He seriously needed something to punch. 

“‘m okay.” Sam finished.

Dean took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. Of course Sam was trying to reassure him when he was the one on the bed throwing up his small intestine. God, that kid was too much. Dean smiled a small smile that didn’t even remotely reach his eyes, all tight lips and no teeth. He then directed his gaze around the room. He needed to find something,  _ anything _ , to do that could help Sam. When his eyes landed on the kitchenette, his shoulders straightened out as the idea hit him. Soup always used to make Sam feel better as a kid. 

Yeah, that’s something he could do.

“You know what?” He turned back to Sam with watery eyes, “I’m gonna make you some soup. How's that sound?”

He didn’t even really wait for a response, just saw Sam’s eyes droop shut again and took it as permission to walk away. He picked the phone back up on his way over to the kitchen, approaching one of the cabinets by the minifridge and pulling out a can of chicken noodle. 

“I’m back, Bobby.” He announced, once again angling his shoulder to hold the phone against his ear so he could use both hands to wrench open the can of soup.

“How is he?” Bobby asked immediately, and for a brief second, Dean considered lying. But that left him quickly when he realized Bobby was their only hope of figuring this out and if he was going to research this, he needed the truth.

Dean reached for a saucepan, put it on the front burner of the stovetop, and turned it on medium-high. He poured the soup into the pan and stepped back for a second, looking over to his sleeping brother.

“Not good.” He answered quietly, “Bobby, I… What if it’s something really bad? What if…” Dean swallowed down the rest of his sentence and shoved the tears away. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of his brother dying, but… he couldn’t help it. Nothing about Sam looked lively right now. Nothing.

“Hey, none of that!” Bobby argued back and Dean squinted his eyes closed and swallowed, “We don’t know nothing about nothing yet. Don’t start thinking that, now. Pull yourself together for your brother, Dean. Sam will be fine, we’re the best in the business. We’ll figure it out.”

“Bobby, I don’t know, he looks awful.” Dean admitted fearfully, unable to put up any kind of remotely hopeful facade.

“Listen here, boy.” Bobby started and Dean’s eyebrows raised as he stepped forward to find a spoon and started stirring the soup on the stove, “If I outlive either one of you boys, I’m gonna kill you both. You got that? Nobody is dying. Not today.”

Dean smirked a little bit.

“I got it, Bobby.” He replied, still not quite believing it, but knowing he at least had to hold onto some string of hope if they were gonna get through this.

“Good.” Bobby confirmed before there was a loud beeping noise on the other end of the phone that made Dean flinch, “Damn Idgits don’t know how to drive!” Bobby yelled and Dean smiled a bit again, “Listen Dean, I’m gonna let you go. I’ll be there in twenty, just-”

“Keep an eye out, I know.” Dean finished, looking over his shoulder at Sam as he did. The kid had shaken off most of the blankets, his upper body from the abs up exposed to the cold air, yet despite that, his chest was flushed and there was sweat all over his body. Dean bit his lip.

“Bye, Dean.” Bobby said at last.

“Bye, Bobby.” Dean shook himself back to the present moment, “Thank you.”

“No need for thanks. I’ll see you soon.” And then the phone call ended and Dean pulled the machine away from his ear and placed it down on the counter, sighing as he continued stirring the soup on the stove. He didn’t even know if Sam would eat it, honestly. He hoped he would. He needed it. But… if Sam insisted, Dean wasn’t sure he’d be able to force him. Those damn puppy dog eyes worked on everyone, no matter how much Dean loved to claim that he was the exception. Not a chance. One look, it was over.

This felt so ridiculous and surreal. Yesterday Sam was fine. Good, even. They finished off a werewolf clean and simple and saved a few people. No serious wounds or casualties. In their books, it was a homerun. Dean wanted to celebrate with booze and babes, and Sam didn’t even try to protest. He drank two beers, the first with Dean by his side, and the second half watching Dean flirt, and then walk away with Meredith. And that was okay. Sam had said he didn’t feel one hundred percent after the hunt. He’d gotten thrown around a bit- caught a punch or two to his jaw and his back that were still aching when they hit the bar. He said he wasn’t in the mood to hook up with a girl, and that he’d enjoy the alone time to actually catch up on sleep for once. Dean didn’t think much of it, just gave him a slap on the shoulder and they parted their ways.

Oh, and Dean had fun. Meredith was a freaking firecracker. He probably got about as much sleep as Sam did, except instead of dozing off between vomiting spells, he was napping between rounds. 

But, God, did his heart ever stop when he saw a missed call from Sam at seven am with no message, no text, no follow-up, no nothing. Sam was always the type of person to call and text. If he wanted Dean to get a message, he’d type it twice. He didn’t not leave a message, and he didn’t give up after one call. Dean had several cell phones, and if Sam had needed him, he would’ve moved on from one number to the next. But none of that happened. It was just one stray phone call. Nothing else. When Dean saw it, he dialed Sam’s number faster than he’s ever typed anything ever before in his life.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Sam sounded on the other end of the call. He was so airy, so choked up, so quiet. He could hear heaves, and hitched breaths, and groans. Dean raced out of that motel room so quickly he put his shirt on backwards. He remembered the way Meredith looked at him, all confused eyes and messy hair from under the covers.

“Dean?” She yawned, “What’s going on?”

“Emergency,” He’d told her, grabbing his wallet and shoving it in his back pocket, “I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

She whined and the last thing he heard as he flew out the door and started running was, “Call me!”

He didn’t even laugh at the fact that that was never gonna happen. Oh, Meredith. Sorry, sweetcheeks.

He ran to the motel and at least sighed a breath of relief when he spotted the impala in the parking lot. He kicked the locked door in because he didn’t think he had time to fiddle with his keys, and then busted into the bathroom too. God, the image of Sam on that floor would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

But, he needed to stop thinking about that. Shake it off. Sam would be fine. He’d be fine. Like Bobby said, he always is. Always. Dean blinked his eyes and shook his head, willing the images and thoughts away. He had other things to focus on.

The soup was starting to simmer, little bubbles popping on the surface of the broth and steam dissipating into the air in thin clouds. Dean sighed, pulling the pan away from the heat and looking over his shoulder to see Sam. His brother was fast asleep, eyes closed tightly and little whimpering breaths falling from his lips. His cheeks were flushed and there was sweat dripping down his forehead. His eyebrows were furrowed in pain even as he slept. Dean brought a hand up and rubbed it over his face, trying to wipe the fear away. He let out a deep breath and turned his attention back to the stove, grabbing a deep bowl and pouring the contents of the sauce pan into it. He then grabbed a spoon and placed it inside the broth, turning off the stovetop and moving over to Sam.

He placed the bowl on the nightstand by the bed and sat down on the desk chair he’d pulled up earlier. Then he cleared his throat and reached out, grabbing Sam’s forearm and giving it a shake.

“Alright, Sam, time to wake up.” He cooed, still jostling his brother’s arm. 

He winced in sympathy when Sam finally peeked his eyes open, immediately closing them again to shut out the light. He let out a moan and pulled his forearm out of Dean’s grasp, bringing it up to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

“Wha…?” He stuttered quietly, clearly confused and overwhelmed.

“I got you some soup, you need to eat something.” Dean explained softly, eyeing Sam carefully for any signs of pain. His brother stayed still for a moment before nodding ever so slightly.

“Okay.” Dean smiled halfheartedly, leveraging an arm under Sam’s back, “Can you sit up a bit?”

And God bless him, Sam tried. He was wobbly and incoherent as he leaned forward with a wince and a dry heave. Dean held onto Sam’s shoulder firmly with one hand as he placed two pillows between his back and the headboard with the other. 

“Okay, lean back.” Sam did so without responding, pulling his lips tight as he scrunched up his face. Dean had to use all of his upper body strength to ease Sam down slowly and prevent him from just collapsing backwards and splitting his head open on the headboard.

But now Sam was in a semi seated position and Dean was able to hand him the bowl of soup, placing it into his shaky hands, but keeping a firm hand on the bowl himself just in case. Sam looked down at the soup and made a disgusted face, scrunching up his nose and pulling his lips into a tight frown. He even gagged a little bit when the smell hit him.

Dean dropped his head, sighing, “I know you don’t want to, but your body needs it. You’ve puked up everything inside you, Sammy. You need the calories.”

Sam knew it was true, Dean knew he did, so he wasn’t surprised when Sam maneuvered his left hand on the bowl so he could let go of it with his right hand and reach for the spoon. He slowly filled the concave end of the spoon with soup, and brought it ever so slowly to his mouth, holding back a gag as he slid it between his lips.

“There you go.” Dean praised, proud of his brother, no matter how simple the task was, “Slow and steady, rabbit.”

Sam let out a laugh that sounded more like a groan as he corrected, “Tortoise.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“It was the…” He coughed, his whole body jerking. Dean saved the bowl from tilting over as Sam leaned back down, “It was the tortoise that was slow and… steady. Not the rabbit.”

“Of course you’d know that.” Dean rolled his eyes playfully, but was secretly grateful that Sam still had some semblance of snarkiness and personality. That was good. Really good. It meant he wasn’t  _ completely  _ out of it, at least.

When he saw Sam’s arm start to shake, Dean wrapped his fingers around his brother’s forearm right below the elbow and helped guide his arm from the bowl to his mouth again. 

“You…” Sam started, the time between his words getting longer as his ability to breathe properly was hindered; coughs and pain filled moans filled the spaces between the words, “You don’t… have to do this. I’d be fine… on my own.”

They both knew that was bullshit. But, it was a Winchester habit to say it anyway. Dean let it roll right off his shoulders. What worried him more was the fact that Sam had to lean backwards because just speaking that much took all the energy out of him. 

Dean’s stomach seized. 

Looking at Sam right now made him remember Casey. She was this petite, curly-haired waitress he hooked up with at Cedar Point a few months back. She was one of those ‘ _ pour my soul into whoever pays attention to me’  _ types. When they were laying in bed in the wee hours of morning, still in the sleepy, intimate afterglow of sex, she started telling him about her dad. He was diagnosed with stomach cancer, and not doing well. She told him about how just putting on a sweater would wipe him of all his energy for the day. That’s what Sam reminded him of right now. Even just talking for a few seconds or spooning soup into his mouth was like a massive energy expulsion. God, Dean really didn’t want to be comparing Sam’s current state to stage three stomach cancer, but… he couldn’t help it. The worry he felt just kept getting more and more prominent with each little twitch, grunt, or whine. 

He stirred the spoon in the soup, but Sam gently shook his head from side to side in rejection, eyebrows furrowed in a clear display of pain. Dean didn’t try to force another mouthful of soup on his brother, opting to give Sam a moment to recollect himself instead.

“What’s wrong with me?” Sam asked after a moment, voice so quiet and airy Dean could barely make it out. When he did, however, he felt his heart shatter. He knew that Sam knew he didn’t have an answer. It was more of a complaint than anything. 

Dean opted for humor, tilting his head and trying his hardest to not sound so drained and worried when he teased, “Well, that’s a long list, Sammy. Where do you want me to start?”

“Urgh.” Sam moaned exasperatedly before mumbling back, “Asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah. You love me.” Dean answered with a teasing smirk that Sam’s eyes were too clouded to see. He cleared his throat and got a bit more serious, nudging Sam’s arm, “Okay, come on, man. You gotta eat more than two spoonfuls.” 

Sam did not look happy about that last comment. Dean swore he saw him close his mouth tighter, pressing his lips more firmly together. Like a freaking three year old refusing their veggies. Dean rolled his eyes half teasingly. 

“Dude. You’re not two. Put on your big boy pants and eat the freaking soup.” 

Hey, if Sam gave in and ate it just to prove Dean wrong or avoid embarrassment- Dean could live with being a little mean. Sam needed to eat. No matter what. It wasn’t good how frail he looked. But… it wasn’t taking. Sam didn’t try to sit up. He didn’t even give him one of his signature bitchfaces. That triggered red alerts in Dean’s brain.

“Sammy?” He asked with a nervous swallow, the ‘ _ are you okay’ _ built in. He took the bowl of soup from Sam’s limp hands and put it down on top of the nightstand. Give the kid a break. 

But then Sam was shooting upright, eyes filled with water and mouth falling open. He grabbed the collar of Dean’s shirt and yanked him down, making him hiss in pain at the way the fabric tugged at the back of his neck. Sam’s knuckles turned white where they were wrapped around his shirt. All of the color drained from his face as he gasped out.

“De…” He rasped, eyes scanning over the room quickly before settling on the empty trash can by the bed. He raised a hand and pointed at the tin can, shaking his hand to emphasize what he needed because he couldn’t form the words. 

Dean’s eyes shot open wide and he reached down to grab the trash can, holding it up for Sam in a matter of seconds and wincing in sympathy when Sam lurched over it and gagged. He shook uncontrollably as he heaved. Dean raised a hand up to his upper back, which was still bare, and gently rubbed it back and forth in an effort to provide some sort of comfort. The first few retches were nothing but air, but then Sam was puking up the soup he ate diluted with all the water he drank before that. Dean felt like punching something. He bit down on his lip to control his anger. Everything Sam ingested just came right back up. There was a part of Dean that just wanted to shove the soup down Sam’s throat then pin him down with a hand over his mouth to keep it down. He was never going to get better if he couldn’t absorb any nutrients. If the starvation didn’t kill him, the dehydration surely would.  _ Fuck. _

“Sam…” He breathed out, not even sure what he himself was trying to say. He kicked himself for how desperate he sounded, and even more so for the way Sam looked at him because of it.

His face was twisted up in pain- eyebrows furrowed low and pulled together, lips hanging in a tight frown, forehead scrunched up and wrinkly- but his eyes… His eyes had a dewey, apologetic look that made Dean’s stomach hurt.

“Dean… ‘m…” He seethed and winced, something not visible to Dean’s naked eye making him hurt, “Sorry.”

Dean immediately shook his head, helping Sam lay back onto the bed as he placed the trash back on the floor, “Stop apologizing, Sam. None of this is your fault. Just try and relax, okay?” 

Sam nodded and then Dean decided to push his luck, trying to be hopeful, “You wanna try some more soup?” 

Sam groaned and mumbled a ‘no’. Of course he did. Dean knew he would. Still… it made the vice around his heart squeeze tighter. 

They stayed like that for a while; Dean sitting on the edge of the rolling desk chair practically hovering over Sam while his brother laid on his back with his mouth open slightly as he stared blankly at the ceiling above. He felt like he was watching paint dry, except instead of stray pigment, it was Sam’s awareness that was dripping away.

_ Knock knock knock. _

Dean sighed in relief, jumping up from the chair and walking up to the door. He opened it right away, which on second thought was probably not a good call for a hunter, but he was desperate and he figured it was Bobby. 

And sure enough, there he was. In all his car grease and creased hat glory.

“Dean.” He greeted as he shoved passed the older Winchester into the motel room, patting Dean on the back once in reassurance.

“Bobby.” Dean returned, closing the door behind him and crossing his arms over his chest. He watched as Bobby immediately made a beeline for Sam, all hesitant footsteps and dread.

“Hey, sport.” Bobby whispered quietly as he leaned over Sam. Dean could hear the worry in his voice.

Sam blinked up at the older hunter lazily but didn’t speak or move a muscle. If it weren’t for his eyes flicking around, Dean would think he was asleep again. 

He watched as Bobby’s gaze trailed over Sam’s pale, sweaty skin and glazed eyes. Sam’s cheekbones were sharp and his lips were parted just the tiniest bit so he could draw in short little breaths. His head was dead weight- stretched over to the side by his shoulder in a position that looked awfully painful for his neck. But, he didn’t seem to care. He was unmoving and unaware. 

Dean thought sickness was supposed to improve over time, not get worse. This was bad. This was something he’s never seen. It was all escalating and if it kept getting worse… No, Dean shook his head. Lock that thought away. 

“God, he looks somethin’ awful.” Bobby sighed, eyebrows pulled together in concern and sympathy. When he turned back to Dean, they locked fearful eyes.

“And you look almost as bad as he does.” Bobby added with a raised brow as he walked away from the younger Winchester and towards the older, “You sleep at all, boy?”

“I’m fine.” Dean immediately defended, jutting his head out and crossing his arms even tighter over his chest. It looked like Bobby was about to protest, so Dean cut him off before he could, voice soft and worried, “Bobby, he can’t keep anything down. It all just comes right back up again. Even the water.”

Bobby tilted his head knowingly at Dean’s deflection, but nonetheless sighed and turned his head to look back at Sam for a moment before questioning, “For how long?” 

“Well, it’s what,” Dean pulled up his wrist to look at his watch, “7:00, now? It started around 8 last night.”

“24 hours.” Bobby confirmed, to which Dean nodded. Bobby drew in a rushed breath and exclaimed, “Crap.” 

“What?” Dean’s eyes shot wide as the panic flooded him, “What? Why crap?!” 

Bobby gave Dean warning eyes before turning his back to him and walking over to Sam. He rolled up the right sleeve of his flannel to his elbow and placed a calloused hand firmly over Sam’s forehead. 

“Dehydration is going to be an issue soon.” He said distractedly as he pulled his hand away with a grimace, “and you’re right. He’s definitely got a fever.” 

“How soon?” Dean ignored Bobby’s second sentiment in favor of paying attention to the first. He knew that the whole no water thing was bad, but he didn’t know exactly  _ how _ bad. And that was something he needed to know. Stat.

“Dehydration can kill you in three days. It’s already been one. He’s gonna start hitting side effects soon. We gotta get some liquids in him fast, or he’s toast.”

Dean felt his stomach tighten and he blinked his eyes once, trying to refocus himself. His heart was pounding in his chest. He’s been trying to make Sam drink water for almost 24 hours now, and the kid kept spitting it right back out. And there were no signs of it getting better any time soon.

“Bobby, I tried.” He announced, voice scarily low, but steadily increasing in volume until the fear and frustration boiled over and he was screaming, “I tried for 23 hours! No matter what, it comes right back up!”

Bobby knit his brows, unphased by the raise in Dean’s volume. His eyes flicked between Dean and Sam as the wheels in his head visibly turned. He bit down on the inside of his cheek for a moment before sighing and turning back to Dean.

He didn’t speak, so Dean added, “Maybe we should take him to the hospital. They can do an IV or something. I’m not risking his life, Bobby.”

Bobby grimaced and tilted his head, “I don’t know. If it’s something supernatural, which it has a good chance of being, the hospital won’t be able to do anything for him, it’ll only waste time. Nevermind raise all kinds of questions. You know that. We need to know more first.”

“Look at him!” Dean snapped, gesturing to Sam and then sighing and lowering his volume when his brother flinched in his sleep, “Bobby, he’s… I don’t care about questions! We have to help him!”

Unphased, Bobby replied, “I know. I don’t like it either, but we have to be smart about this.”

“Bobby-” Dean warned, fire in his eyes.

“Okay, look, I don’t want him to get hurt,” Dean sent him a glare so Bobby corrected himself, “ _ More  _ hurt. I’ll make you a deal. If we can’t get him to keep down water by tomorrow morning, we take him to a hospital.”

Dean bit down on the inside of his cheek, still fighting one hell of an internal battle. Reluctantly, he looked between Sam and Bobby and finally gave a small nod.

“Okay,” Bobby started and Dean raised his brows, “Before we can do anything we have to figure out what the hell is happening to him. I’m gonna make a quick run, you keep an eye on him.”

“Make a run?” Dean asked, confused, “Bobby, it’s 8:00 at night, where?” 

“I have an idea.” He walked to the door with a half-smug smirk and grabbed his keys, “I’ll be back as quick as I can. Just-”

“I’m watchin’ him.” Dean filled in with a wave of his hand. He cleared his throat, dreadfully peered at Sam, and then turned to Bobby one last time, “Just… hurry.” 

Bobby gave him one firm nod and then he was out the door. Once Dean heard the sound of the door shutting, he cleared his throat and walked back over to Sam. 

He was still staring absently up at the ceiling, eyes barely peeking out the slits of his eyelids and irises covered in a glistening sheen. He was still so pale, so fragile. It felt like with every passing second more and more of Sam dripped away. First it was his appetite, then his awareness, then his humor… now it seemed like it was his ability to basically function that was dissipating. 

Dean stared down at his brother. There was a small part of him that thought this was it. This was how Sam’s cannon was gonna blow out. His brother survived Lucifer himself, and a freaking stomach bug was going to be the thing that killed him. What kind of sick, twisted irony was that?

No.  _ No _ .

There had to be an answer. There was always an answer.

Sam wasn’t dying today. Not while Dean was still breathing. Not ever.

Dean pulled a hand up to his face and brushed it over his chin, feeling the scratch of his stubble against his palm. Figuring out the solution to a problem was Sam’s MO. Dean’s was waiting for Sam to point the way and then kicking the ass of whatever thing he led him to. This wasn’t his forte. There had to be something he could attack. 

Then it hit him.

Curse.

_ Curse! _

Bobby had suggested it, and Dean had brushed it off, but… it would explain why Sam was getting worse instead of better. It would explain why Sam was in so much pain. Why he was exhibiting the symptoms of no single virus. Of course it could be a curse. And if it was a curse, then there would be a hex bag.  _ Yes. _

Dean immediately got to work. He could feel Sam’s glazed, yet stubborn eyes on him as he silently stripped his bed, searching through the tangle of sheets, checking the mattress. When that turned up nothing, he set about systematically demolishing the room. He emptied every trash can, fiddled with all of the lamps, basically dismembered the desks and dressers, and took the backs off all the phones and remotes. He knocked on the walls by the plugs to find hollow spots, checked each of the floorboards for creaks, and eyed every inch of the walls for seams. The room looked like a tornado ran through it by the time he was done. The only place left to check was Sam’s bed. God, Dean didn’t want to make him move, but… his life could be on the line here.

“Okay, Sam, we gotta switch you to my bed, okay? I promise it’ll be quick.” Dean announced, pulling the sheets completely off Sam and wincing in sympathy as Sam groaned.

His brother wasn’t lucid enough to agree or disagree, he just let Dean grab him by the waist and shoulders and drag him out of the bed. It was actually a little easier to maneuver Sam now that he wasn’t trying to carry any of his own weight, oddly enough. He didn’t protest when Dean grabbed him and moved him around, just let him do what he needed to. It was also a much shorter distance, which certainly didn’t hurt. 

Once Sam was down on Dean’s mattress, Dean went to pull the covers up over his body -which was so muscular but looked so frail right now in all it’s pale and sweaty skin glory- but Sam shook his head and pushed a weak arm up to stop him.

“No… ‘s too hot.” Sam whimpered, squirming his body away from Dean and batting blindly at the sheets that were apparently coming way too close to his face.

“Okay, okay.” Dean replied quickly yet softly, trying to get Sam to calm down. He lowered the sheets back down to the end of the bed in a matter of seconds and threw his hands up in surrender, “No blankets, got it.”

Sam seemed to melt down into the mattress once the threat of Dean pulling the covers over him was lifted, and he bobbed his head once in an exhausted nod. He turned his head away from Dean and his eyebrows narrowed for a moment in pain. When Dean heard the barely-there whimper fall from his brother’s lips, he made the decision. He was finding that hex bag.  _ Now. _

He left Sam’s side and ripped the pillow off of the bed Sam was laying on before, shaking it out and reaching inside the cover to check there too. Once he deemed it was clean, he added it to the mess building on the floor and started going at the sheets. He yanked the blankets down and shook each one out individually before the mattress was bare. Then he flipped that up and checked for any unnatural seams where a hex bag could be hidden, but came up empty. He checked under the bed and in the bed frame, but again… nothing. Dean pulled his hands up to his hair and yanked, the stress and worry building up. 

The bathroom was next. He ran into the room before backing up and standing in the doorway. He ran his fingers over the top edge of the door frame that stuck out above the door. Nothing. He cursed under his breath and then walked in. In a matter of seconds, there were toiletries all over the floor, and Dean winced when his eyes landed on the puddle of bile still on the floor from last night. But he’d worry about that later. He emptied the trash can over the floor and opened the cabinets to check every item inside individually. From the tubes of toothpaste to the inside of every deodorant stick. He slammed the mirrored doors shut when he came up empty. He looked inside the sink, down in the pipes below it, and behind the knobs. He checked in the tub and behind the toilet. He even pulled the shower rod down and shook it to see if there was something in it that would make noise.

Nothing.

He left the bathroom with a loud curse and took a deep breath in an attempt to refocus as he stood in the middle of the destruction, panting hard. Both of their duffels had been emptied and there were clothes thrown everywhere. Books littered the floor and the windows were stripped naked, curtains in piles on the floor. Toiletries were tossed thoughtlessly all over the floor of the bathroom.

"Dean - " Sam’s voice was barely audible, but Dean could hear the protest in his tone and he didn’t want any part of it. This had to be a curse. It had to be.

"Must be in the car," Dean said decisively, and then he was marching to the door and flinging it open. He took a step through the door and blinked his eyes a few times to adjust to the darkness outside. The sun had set probably fifteen minutes ago. There was still a faint like filtering in from the horizon. He turned back quickly to tell Sam that he’d ‘be right back’ before striding over to the impala.

Dean opened all of the doors and checked every nook and cranny she had. He slid his palms over the doors, the seats, and the carpet, checking for lumps or seams. The contents of the glove compartment was dumped into the footwell on the passenger’s side. He looked under the seats and scanned the dashboard with laser-accuracy. 

When the interior was cleared, he moved on to the exterior, grabbing a flashlight and using it to thoroughly check the bumpers, the wheel guards, and the bonnet. He emptied out the trunk, picking up their first aid kit and spilling it out. He even did a sweep of the hidden compartment their weapons were stashed in. But again, he was at a loss. He felt the lump grow in his throat as he stared at the mess. Dean let his arms drop limply to his sides, his back to Sam and the motel room.

He felt hollow. Dean knew that a curse was a longshot, but he had let himself believe that the solution lay within his reach. But now… 

"Damn it!" He cursed aloud, grabbing the impala’s rear door with white knuckles and slamming it shut as a way to let out his frustration. He then leaned over the trunk and closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together as the hope drained from him completely. He couldn’t go back to Sam feeling or looking this way. He couldn’t bring this back to him. He had to be strong. God knows how stressed Sam already was without absorbing Dean’s worries. 

He stood there for a few minutes, taking the time to gather himself, before locking the car and walking back to the motel room. He didn’t even clean the mess he left inside the car, too preoccupied by a million other things. The car could wait. Sam couldn’t.

He sighed loudly when he entered the room and took in the sight of the mess he left behind. He shook his head, approaching Sam to check in on him. 

“Where’d you go?” Sam whispered once Dean was close enough to hear him, his eyes opening and closing repeatedly like it was painful to stay awake.

“I was uh…” Dean sighed, deciding to tell the truth. He couldn’t lie to Sam when he looked like this, “Looking for a hex bag.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised just barely and he squinted, “Any luck?”

Dean turned his head away from Sam with a deep breath before reconnecting their gazes and grudgingly confessing, "No. You're not cursed."

Sam huffed a humourless laugh that triggered a full body spasm that made him cry out, "You sure ‘bout that?"

Dean's stomach clenched. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and kneeled down in front of the bed. He grabbed Sam’s shoulder to gain his attention and spoke with the most conviction he could muster, "You listen to me, Sam. You are not cursed. I promise you that I’m going to figure this out. You’re going to be fine."

Sam chewed his lower lip, looking almost exactly the way he had when he was young and scared. God, his lips were so chapped and purple. They looked so dark compared to his sickly pale skin. He whispered as his eyes fluttered shut, "What if you can't?"

Dean set his mouth in a determined line. He felt the anger rush through him at even the mere thought of this killing his brother. He clenched his jaw and raised his brows, “Watch me.”


	3. The psychic healer who saved the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby brings help, but will it be enough?

*Dean POV* 

_ It could just be a sickness _ , Dean told himself,  _ stop panicking over nothing. _

He scoffed. Yeah, Dean Winchester stopping worrying about his brother? Not a chance in hell. He raised up from the ground by Sam’s bed and turned his back to his brother, running an open-palmed hand over his eyes and swallowing down the fear threatening to take him over. 

When he briefly guided his eyes back to Sam, he saw that his brother’s eyes had fluttered shut and his breaths were growing slightly more even than before. He was still flushed though, and his skin was so pale he looked ghoulish.

Curse, flu, food poisoning, virus… the possibilities kept ticking away. The word  _ poison _ was getting louder and louder in Dean’s head, but he kept pushing it away. He couldn’t… that couldn’t be it. It had to be something else, something treatable. 

Lost in his own train of thought, Dean didn’t realize time had been moving until suddenly the door was being unlocked and Bobby was stepping inside the room with a duffle bag stuffed to the brim. Dean couldn’t figure out how he even got the zipper to close. 

“Bobby?” Dean asked curiously, eyebrows knit together. He jerked his head to look at the clock on the wall and saw it was 1:48am. Where the hell had Bobby been at this time?

“Yeah.” The older hunter mumbled as he closed the door behind him and pushed down on a button to lock his car, a beep sounding from the parking lot just outside the door. 

Dean’s shoulders relaxed, but then he felt his whole body tense once again when he noticed that Bobby wasn’t alone. After he crossed the threshold of the doorway, a woman followed him not two feet behind. She was an older woman; so skinny and pale she was almost skeletal looking. Her skin sagged and her lips weren’t quite in a frown, but they were pretty damn close. She had long, thick black hair that hung in tight ringlets and her eyes were decorated in too much turquoise eyeshadow. Her gaze was haunting as she walked into the room, head darting around as she took in all of her surroundings. Where the hell did Bobby get a woman at 2:00am in the morning?

Bobby didn’t pay any attention to her as he threw his duffle bag down on the empty bed with a grunt and went to adjust his baseball cap, sliding his fingers over the edge of the visor and straightening it out. Then he turned to look at Sam, and Dean could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Dean crossed his arms and walked over to Bobby, keeping a careful eye on the woman in the doorway.

“Who the hell is that?” Dean asked Bobby in a hushed yell, not caring even a little bit that she could hear him. He kept his gaze on the hunter even as he pointed at the woman.

Bobby straightened out and answered, “Dean, meet Uli.” And then he looked in her direction and countered, ‘Uli, meet Dean. And that there on the bed is-”

“Sam Winchester.” Uli interrupted and Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. 

She started walking towards Sam like she had the right, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. Dean felt his heart beat quicken as the unknown woman moved towards his very vulnerable little brother. Acting on sheer instinct alone, he crossed in front of her path before she could reach the end of Sam’s bed. He stood directly in front of her and held a hand up to halt her movement.

“Uh-uh.” He looked straight into her eyes, “You’re not getting anywhere near him until you tell me who you are and why the hell you’re here.”

Her lips curled up just barely on the right side, but otherwise she looked completely unphased. She looked so poised and confident, utterly indifferent to Dean. Her posture was impeccable, neck straight and shoulders in an even line. Her eyes trailed over Dean’s face.

“You’re afraid.” She announced suddenly, and her voice was borderline aetherial. It was breathy and shallow, like it would hurt her to speak above a whisper. Dean felt increasingly uneasy as her eyes pored over him, “Your aura is in a state of great havok. Your worry for him is overwhelming all other senses, and yet you feel… protective of him. You’re worried about me. Mr.Winchester, you don’t have to be scared. I am here to help.”

Dean felt like he’d been undressed and left in the middle of the room in his birthday suit. 

“Okay, enough with the hippie dippie shit.” He cleared his throat, very much not liking feeling this vulnerable. He looked back at her with a frustrated glance and stated more than questioned, “You’re a psychic?” 

“Best one around.” Bobby answered before she could. Dean jerked his head around to eye Bobby, who continued, “Uli helped Rufus and I on a case a while back. She’s not just a psychic, Dean, she’s a healer. We can trust her, she saved Rufus’ life when his head was bashed in so bad he was leaking cerebellum out ‘his ear. I know it’s not the way you like doing things, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

Dean bit down on his lip. On one hand, this woman could be the miracle key to saving Sam’s life. If that was the case, he’d kiss her on the lips right now and never stop singing her praise. But… there was a chance that she wasn’t out for his best interest. Dean didn’t know her. He didn’t trust her. They’ve never had good luck with healers or psychics; the last one they hooked up with only saved Dean by taking someone else’s life. Sam wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened because of him… But then again, he didn’t have to know… 

Dean begrudgingly addressed Uli, “If I let you- and I mean  _ if-  _ how would it work?”

She raised a brow just barely and then looked over Dean’s shoulder at Sam. She tilted her head back and forth a few times in contemplation before speaking with the same haunting tone as before, “Generally I can get a read of the injury by touching the person. I’ll locate the damage and I’ll increase the speed of cellular regeneration.”

“Well this isn’t an injury.” Dean bit out, still standing with his legs straight and arms crossed, defensive.

“No, it’s not.” She agreed easily, and her certainty made Dean uneasy. She just walked into the room minutes ago and yet it felt like she knew what was going on better than the other three of them combined. Dean was not a fan. 

“I can tell from here. It’s affecting him deeply, his energy is dissipating. There’s something parasitic in his body- something that’s not supposed to be there. It’s not centralized in one area, either, it’s coursing through him.”

Dean swallowed nervously, and for the first time in a long time, he took his eyes off of Uli and glanced back at Sam. Every pore on his body was seeping out sweat, and he was so flushed he was turning scarlett. He looked so pained, so frail. Dean brought his gaze back to the psychic and he debated for a moment before speaking again.

“So, you touch him and he gets better. What’s the catch?” Dean asked, not wanting to delay Sam getting better, but also wanting to know what kind of fallout was on tap if he did.

“There isn’t one.” She answered, and when Dean raised a suspectful brow, she elaborated, “My twin sister died over thirty years ago, when we were both fresh out of college. Long before I developed my… abilities. I couldn’t save her.” 

“So, you helping other people- healing them- is your way of filling that hole.” Dean confirmed, finally starting to understand the woman in front of him. There was a small flare of hope in his chest. Maybe just once they caught a break. 

She gave him a look that said he was right without opening her mouth to speak and Dean swallowed. He still felt tense and wasn’t 100% buying it all, but… he looked at Sam and all he could think was  _ What choice do I have? _

So, he nodded slowly and started to move out of her way, “Okay. But if you try anything-”

“I’m sure you’ll find an adequate way to take out your frustration.” She filled in with a smug look, rolling up her sleeves and moving towards Sam. Her bare arms were ghostly pale and freckled with spots from sun damage and age.

Dean walked to the opposite side of the bed as Uli and watched her every move with a skeptical gaze. She looked up at Dean, half-amused and then shook her head in a gesture that said “whatever.” Damn right, Dean was going to be a pain in her ass. If she tried anything or if Sam experienced any pain at all, he was going to be Right. Freaking. Here.

Deal with it.

“Can you flip him on his back?” Uli asked Dean as she reached around her wrist and pulled an elastic off of her arm. 

As Dean uncrossed his arms and placed two gentle hands on Sam’s shoulders, Uli tied up her hair in a thick ponytail just at the nape of her neck. Dean kept an eye on her as he carefully lowered Sam from his side to his back, grabbing onto his calves to uncross his legs so he was lying flat. Sam was relatively unresponsive, letting Dean move him around like a ragdoll. His eyes were still closed, but Dean could tell from his uneven breathing that he wasn’t deep in sleep. 

“Good.” Uli commended him once Sam was down flat, then she rubbed her hands together for a moment and closed her eyes. She stood like that for a moment, seemingly lost in her own mind. Dean exchanged a frustrated look with Bobby, who just shrugged. 

When she reopened her eyes, she took a deep, stabilizing breath and then laid her hands out. Her palms hung barely an inch above Sam’s bare chest, and Dean would be willing to bet that she could feel the heat radiating off of him. The kid was a damn sauna. Uli closed her eyes and tilted her head up. Her hands swayed just minutely, up from the top of his sternum to his pelvis, still hovering and not actually touching his skin. Dean studied her face and felt his nerves intensifying as her eyebrows scrunched together and her lips twitched in something that was certainly not a smile.

After a few seconds, she tilted her head back down and spoke with her hands still moving and eyes still closed, “It’s very powerful. He’s trying to fight it off, but his organs are failing. His body is losing. All I feel is blackness, it’s all-consuming.”

“What is it?” Bobby asked before Dean could, walking up to stand next to the older Winchester with a matching skeptical look in his eyes.

She didn’t change a detail of her facial expression, bodily movements, or voice as she simply answered, “Poison.”

Dean actually had to reach out for the wall to keep himself from doubling over. Damn it, he  _ knew it.  _ Why did he keep ignoring it?! God Dammit, they could’ve been close to a solution hours ago instead of uselessly digging through books and searching for hex bags. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“Mr.Winchester, you’re thinking too loud.” Uli chastised suddenly, softly, and Dean jerked his head back in surprise and defensiveness, “I need to concentrate.”

Dean wanted to say something back. He had a million and one retorts festering in his brain, but they all died on his tongue. This was too important to be butthurt. 

Uli continued methodically waving her hands above Sam’s sleeping body, her eyebrows seemingly growing closer and closer to one another by the second.

“It’s getting close to his heart. Once it reaches, he’ll die nearly instantly. I think I can draw it away, but… removing it completely may not be an option.” She announced.

Dean tensed and he took a step forward, flicking his eyes between his brother and the psychic. His voice was verging on angry as he prodded, “The hell do you mean you can’t get rid of it? You’re a healer, right? Heal him!”

She was again unphased by his outburst. Dean figured she could probably sense his emotions long before he acted out on them. His anger didn’t even make her flinch. She remained poised and focused. 

“There’s too much of it. The dosage was intended to kill. I can’t remove all of it. My power is drawn from my soul, and that kind of energy exertion could kill me.”

“So, what? There’s nothing you can do?!” Dean accused, feeling the heat climb up his chest as the fear and anger threatened to overtake him.

“I said no such thing.” She eased, opening her eyes and looking at Dean, “Poison is designed to be given in very specific doses. In smaller amounts, people can survive it. The immune system will fight it off. I believe I can take enough of the poison away to make it nonlethal. I cannot eliminate it in its entirety, but I may be able to reduce it down to an amount that his body can fight off.” 

“That’s good, Dean.” Bobby placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Dean shook off Bobby’s hand almost immediately, not liking the touching right now. He was too tense, too stressed out. A live wire waiting to zap the next closest thing. These things always,  _ always _ had consequences. Uli talked a damn good game, but so did the faith healer that murdered an innocent girl. So did the crossroads demon that took his soul. So did freaking Lucifer. 

Sam would never let him live it down if someone else got hurt because of him. Sam would never want to be saved at the cost of someone else’s life, or even someone else’s morality. Dean couldn’t play with Sam’s life, or hell, his feelings like that. He wasn’t a puppet waiting to be played with, Sam had his own judgements and his own moral compass. Dean had no right to screw with that. 

Except Sam was lying merely inches away from him on his deathbed. Dean could weigh the consequences all he wanted, but the second he laid his eyes on Sam… he didn’t give a single crap about the fallout. He’d rather have a pissed off Sam than no Sam at all. 

So… he swallowed and looked up to Uli.

“Do it.” He instructed simply, shifting his gaze down to Sam’s pale face and locking his jaw in place. 

Uli simply nodded, and then she was leaning down and closing the distance between her hands and Sam’s skin for the first time. Her palms pressed onto his abs, and she spread her fingers evenly over the muscles gathered there. Her eyes fluttered shut and she took an audible breath before ducking her head down and starting to mumble.

Dean couldn’t work out the words she was saying, but they were certainly not english or any dialect Dean had ever heard of before. Who the hell was this chick?

That question quickly became obsolete when Sam’s back arched off the bed and into her frail, yet surprising strong hands. His eyes remained closed but there were moans of pain dripping from his mouth. Dean felt himself choke up at the sight of his brother in pain. He knelt down where he was and grabbed Sam’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it and clutching it tight. Maybe for Sam’s benefit, maybe for his own. Probably both.

She kept mumbling and Sam kept groaning. Dean was quickly getting tired of this and he steered his gaze to Uli. Just as he was about to yell and ask what the hell was taking so long, he saw it.

Suddenly Sam’s veins were visibly flushed with neon red streaks, glowing underneath his skin. They grew closer and closer to Uli’s hands, as if whatever the glowing red substance was, she was a magnet drawing it in. Dean watched in stunned silence as the red reached Sam’s abs, and then transferred up Uli’s fingers and into her wrists. She kept mumbling spellwork.

The streaks were getting thinner and thinner by the second. Dean figured just a few more seconds and she’d pull away. Or maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought, and she’d be able to finish to job.

You’d think Dean would’ve learned to not be hopeful by now. 

Uli pulled her hands away when it looked like there was still a damn good amount of the neon liquid in Sam’s body. Dean jerked his head back and looked up at her. She was leaning with one hand on the nightstand holding her up, breathing exasperated breaths as she visibly sweat. 

“What the hell?! Finish the job!” Dean accused, letting go of Sam’s hand to stand up and look Uli in the face. 

“He can fight it now. It will take time, but he can fight it.” She breathed out, clearly drained, “I cannot take anymore.”

Dean was about to erupt again, but Bobby cut him off.

“Thank you, Uli.” He said, walking forward to offer her a hand, “Why don’t I give you a ride back to your place. There’s a 24 hour coffee shop down the road, I’ll buy. We should give those two some time alone.” 

Uli nodded and gratefully took Bobby’s extended hand, letting him guide her. Right before they reached the door, she turned back.

“Your brother should wake up soon.” She said, “He will still be sick for a while, but he will get better. Patience.” 

Dean nodded, waving her off with an equally frustrated and rough “Thank you.” Before both her and Bobby were out the door and it was just him and Sam again. 

Sam.  _ Sam! _

When Dean laid his eyes on him, he felt a breath he’d been holding for days leave his lungs. 

Sam didn’t look well by any means. In fact, if Dean wasn’t comparing him to how he looked a few minutes ago, he’d be worried sick out of his mind. But, damn if he didn’t look better. He was still pale by every definition of the word, but his skin had visibly gained a hint of color. It didn’t look quite as glossy as before. His cheeks were still sunken in, but not nearly as deep. The sweat that was all over his upper body was now only at his neck and forehead. His lips were still purple, but less blue than before. He looked  _ better. _

“Sam?” Dean asked, just testing it out. 

Nothing.

“Yeah, I figured.” He mumbled to himself. 

For all Dean knew, when Sam woke up again he could be just as out of it and just as uncomfortable as before. For all Dean knew, Uli was a fraud and Sam wouldn’t wake up at all. No… shut that thought down. Sam had to be okay. He had to be. 

Dean let out a deep breath and brought a hand up to his face, swiping his palm over his chin and feeling the stubble poke at his calloused skin. His eyes just kept poring over Sam. He couldn’t take his eyes off of him. 

God only knows how much time passed as he stood there- goosebumps erupting on his skin whenever Sam so much as breathed differently. Every little twitch, sound, or flicker of eyes under his lids sent Dean’s heart beating out of his chest like a damn cartoon. Sam looked better, sure, but he’d never really know until the kid woke up. 

It was getting dark outside. Dean felt the frustration bleed into anger and betrayal. Uli said Sam would wake up ‘soon’. Well, it was damn passed ‘soon’.

God, he was gonna have to make himself busy in the near future or run the risk of throwing himself out the fucking window. But he looked around, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t feed Sam. He couldn’t get him water. The kid was out like a light. 

So, what?

He sighed and for the first time since Uli left, strolled away from Sam’s bed and sat down on the mattress closest to the bathroo- 

Oh. The bathroom. Right. 

Cleaning up bile  _ was _ something he could do. It was certainly not something he  _ wanted _ to do.

But he also knew that if Sam woke up feeling better, the kid would insist on cleaning it up himself, and Dean couldn’t let that happen. No way in hell should Sammy have to pick up his own puke after the night he had. So, with a grimace, Dean got up off the couch and walked into the bathroom. He scrunched up his nose as the acidic smell hit him, opening the cabinets and pulling out paper towels and floor cleaner. 

He felt his heart rate instinctively hasten when he dropped his body to the floor. All the memories from last night came flooding back- Sam clutching the toilet for dear life, the sound of dry heaving, the muscles clenching underneath his palms as Sam puked. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to push them away. He turned to look into the main room to make sure he still had a decent view of his brother before systematically going about wiping up the bile. 

About halfway through, he had to take a break. Dean was by no means squeamish, but something about Sam’s bile just put him off. He swallowed thickly before getting right back to it. 

By the end he had about seven soaked-through paper towels, a half empty bottle of floor cleaner, and a much more pleasant smell. He threw away the wipes, looked over to see Sam still sound asleep, and decided to keep on going; the bathroom was still a disheveled mess from when he was tearing ass looking for a hex bag. 

He went about picking up the floor, shoving caps back on bottles and folding the towels. He hummed metallica to himself as he wiped down pills and put them back in their bottle. He threw away what couldn’t be salvaged- primarily disassembled deodorant sticks that had started to melt. Dean made a mental note that they would have to get some more later. Absentmindedly, he wondered where Bobby was. He looked at his watch and it read 7:13am. It’d been over 4 hours since the older hunter had left. Where the hell was he? He sighed and decided to ignore that thought for the time being.

His own exhaustion was catching up with him now, too. He hadn’t slept in over a day, running on nothing but worry and fear. Now that there was no imminent threat… he felt the weariness closing in. But screw it, he wasn’t going to give in to sleep. He needed to be the first face Sam saw when he woke up. No matter how long it took. He owed him that much. So, he stifled a yawn and continued cleaning. 

Sorted cabinets.

Wiped down sink.

Tightened pipes.

It was thirty minutes later when things changed. About five minutes into wiping down the mirrors… a faint cough came from the other room. Every fiber in Dean’s body sparked alive. He dropped the wipes, rushed out of the bathroom, and sprinted into the main room. 

“Sam?”


	4. Epilogue

*Sam POV* 

_ Dry. Dry. Dry.  _

That was the first, second, and third thought that crossed Sam’s mind when he broke the veil into consciousness. 

His throat was pure sandpaper, his mouth was nothing but cotton, and his tongue was a desert. It felt like he hadn’t taken a drink in weeks, the utter lack of moisture creating a fire in his esophagus. He couldn’t tell if it hurt, itched, or was just flat out uncomfortable. All he knew was that it wasn’t supposed to feel the way it did. 

He started to become more aware of the rest of his body as more and more grogginess slipped away. His limbs felt immobile. They were  _ heavy _ . Elephants sat atop of both of his arms, both of his legs, and his torso. He felt like he was in a ziplock bag vacuumed of all air- compressed and unable to move from the pressure hugging him at every inch of his body. Nevermind the drumming in his head and the twisting in his gut. 

He tried to groan but it came out as a cough, his airway apparently not used to making any noise. 

“Sam?” He heard come from his right not even a second after he coughed. He just barely tilted his head to try and find where the noise was coming from, but winced when it made his head hurt even worse. This time he did manage a groan.

“Sammy?! Oh, thank God.” He heard the same voice, but this time it was closer and followed by a dull thud right next to his bed. He felt panic start to claw up his body, the fear of being unaware and vulnerable eating at him. Sam jerked his head to the side again and felt his body relax immediately when he laid eyes on Dean.

“Man, is it good to see you awake.” Dean’s grin was radiant as he leaned it a little, and Sam realized the thud he heard must’ve been his brother’s knees hitting the floor. He tried to crane his neck to look around more at the same time he flexed his jaw to speak, but both actions made shivers spark up his spine. He choked on a fractured breath.

“Woah, okay, take it easy.” Dean soothed, bringing a hand up to wipe the sweat away from Sam’s brow, “You were out for a while, it’s gonna take a minute to find your sea legs.” 

Sam nodded just barely and leaned into Dean’s touch. He squinted his eyes shut tightly and took a deep breath, deciding to slow down for a second and decipher where the hell he was and what the heck was going on. He was on a motel bed, that much was obvious by the lumps under his back and the flat pillow beneath his head. So, motel. That meant hunt. 

What were they hunting again? He worked his way backwards. 

His back still hurt a bit… injured, claws… werewolf. They were hunting a werewolf. He remembered his finger on the trigger. No, they weren’t hunting a werewolf… they killed the werewolf. And now he was in bed? Was he injured… no. No, he remembered getting hit… jaw, back… not bad. He was fine. Then they hit the bar… Dean… drinks… red-head girl… Sam… beers… home. Tired. Hurt. He remembered laying down, going to sleep, head pounding… waking up… stomach twisting… nausea. Puking, head drumming, chills, heat waves… fainting, phone calls… Dean, on his way back… holding him as he threw up… warm hands… Bobby… manhandling to the bed. And then blackness before soup… more Bobby… more Dean… hex bags.

He flicked his eyes open as he finally came around to the idea that he had been quite sick for a while. It wasn’t the hunt or anything… it was just a sickness. He still felt pretty shitty, actually. More lucid than before though, that was for sure.

“How you feeling?” Dean asked softly when he saw Sam had visibly calmed down a bit, still gently rubbing at his temple.

Sam twisted his lip up in a bit of a scowl as he tried to gauge exactly how he did feel. And whether or not he should lie about it. He guided his gaze to Dean and felt his chest clench tighter. It looked like Dean hadn’t slept in days, hair tousled and unmaintained, cheeks slightly flushed, and dark bags under his eyes. Lie it was.

“Better.” He said, and his voice was barely audible and scratchy. He immediately started coughing roughly as the fire burned hotter in his throat due to the first use in a long time. He wheezed and winced when he felt Dean’s hand leave his forehead. No… 

He was about to ask for water when suddenly there was a hand at the base of his skull pulling his head up, and another gently guiding a glass of water to his lips. Dean always seemed to know what he needed before he even realized it himself. He never had to ask.

He let Dean guide him, parting his lips willingly when he felt the edge of the cold glass against his mouth. He took small sips, relishing in the way it coated his mouth and soothed his dry throat. His tongue sang praise.

Dean had one of those trying-not-to-smile smiles on his face, his lips tilted up in a genuine, relieved grin as he continued holding up Sam’s head and tilting the glass. Sam wondered what the hell he was so happy about. 

“Atta boy, Sammy.” Dean commented with a proud, and patently relieved tone. 

Sam didn’t even want to ask. He just focused on finishing the water and when it was gone, whispered, “More?”

Dean looked equally shocked and thrilled at his request, and it finally dawned on Sam that he must not have been drinking much water recently. He understood Dean’s enthusiasm; dehydration was no joke. 

His brother practically skipped over to the fridge to fill the glass again. He brought it over to Sam for the second time and once again smiled like a little kid on Christmas as he helped Sam drink it down. Once that glass was empty, Dean raised his brows and tilted it in a silent question, but Sam shook his head. He was good for now. With a sigh, he leaned back down and Dean removed his hands from his neck so he could drop onto the pillow comfortably. 

It was two days later when he got solid food down for the first time, and Dean’s reaction was pretty similar. He celebrated the occasion by running out to buy pie and beers for him and Sam. They toasted to healing and life and Uli. 

Over the week that followed Sam’s poisoning, Dean slowly and carefully filled his brother in on all the details. He was still nauseous for a few days after Uli left, and Dean became accustomed to rubbing circles on his back while he hovered over the toilet. Other than that, tylenol pretty much soothed the headaches and the fever faded away after a couple days. He was getting better.

They still didn’t hunt for two weeks after the incident. Dean, for one, didn’t sleep. He spent every hour or every day trying to figure out who the hell poisoned Sam and how they did it without either of the boys finding out.

It took him eight days, but eventually he was able to track it back to the werewolves they were hunting before Sam got sick. Apparently, the alpha had drugged Sam hours before they took down the werewolves in an attempt to distract the brothers, but it didn’t work quite as fast as he expected it to. So, the culprit for Sam’s poisoning was already long dead. It took Dean a few hours to get over the disappointment of not being able to kill him a second time, but once he did, it was replaced with the relief of knowing that the thing out to kill Sam was no longer a threat.

Their first hunt once Sam was back on two feet and the body aches faded away was a vampire nest in Albuquerque. 

The next was a Rugaroo in San Jose.

Then a wendigo in Syracuse.

By the time they pulled into Salt Lake City, the whole incident was behind them.

And every once in a while, Dean would look over to the passengers seat just to double check that Sam was still there next to him. He’d take in his no longer pale face and lively eyes and turn back to the road with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve stuck around for this story, thank you! It took a lot of work, but I really enjoyed writing it. Again, feel free to comment but keep it positive if you do!!
> 
> Xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’ve been working on this foreverrrr and I’m excited to finally share it! Feel free to leave comments just keep them positive please!
> 
> I have all the chapters done, I’m just editting through them so they’ll be up soon :D


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